


The End

by harryanthus



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hope, Hopeful Ending, It does get better, M/M, Post-War, Psychological Trauma, Selectively Mute Louis, Set somewhere in the present, Soldier Harry, a hundred metaphors, apologies from author, based on golden, it's barely mentioned - Freeform, they are together but not together together, this is all about hope, trauma is not explained well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26117824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryanthus/pseuds/harryanthus
Summary: Louis beams at him with pineapple juice dribbling down his jaw and it clicks into place.The bright, smooth, silken feeling, honeyed and polished is hope.Louis reminds him of how beautiful hope truly is.or a post war au where Harry is trying to find hope.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 42
Collections: Fine Line Fic Fest





	The End

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the [Fine Line Fic Fest](https://finelineficfest.tumblr.com//). Make sure you check out all the other great fics in the collection which can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/FineLineFicFest//)!
> 
> i chose golden and all i could think was about hope playing in context of the song.
> 
> of course i am not a medical practitioner or have undergone trauma to write about it and hence have refrained from it. the main plot of this very short fic is hope. it is unrealistic at points and i apologise for that.
> 
> constructive criticism is appreciated alongside kudos

_In the end we are not regretful about what is lost, we’re worried about our own destruction. The way we see our hands as weapons and not for what they are_.

Harry finds him near the end of June when he’s got dirt smudged under his eyes, settled into the purple bags that come from years of constant tiredness, grime from weeks crusted on his skin, flesh littered with bruises, blood from wounds— people he had to put to sleep, they are all his wounds— his mouth is dry, entire body weighed down with weary bones.

The boy— man, whatever he chooses to hold on to— he stands stubbornly fragile, hands shaking but stature straight. He stands amidst ruins and debris, looking like poetry and lightning, body curling into himself, yet so prideful amongst his ruins.

Harry offers a red stained hand, the palm that falls in his is sweaty, clammy and warm, it leaves perspiration on his rings. His fingers slot themselves between the gaps of his own, a little ill fitting and wet but he holds on.

He doesn’t think deep about the hand he is offering to a potential stranger nor does he hesitate to take him back to his. Or whatever has remained of his.

It’s like a metaphor, he muses, forcing his legs to move, once, twice, thrice.

_They move together like war_ and it reminds him the end of it all—the end of June.  
  


* * *

_The end of war leaves nothing behind, it is the beginning that takes away the most important thing we all survive on—hope. It takes away hope._

Hope has always been dangerous. It would cost lives and broken limbs and flesh torn over to reveal bones fading to dust and mixing with the earth, gritty, rotting, erasing.

His companion, the boy, his fragility was all over— from his wrists to ankles, above his knees to below his elbows, all across his ribs, his spine, curve of his throat. So delicate, ready to snap and give under a heavy hand unlike his own.

Harry thinks he would break at the slightest of shakes.

Despite all of it, he doesn’t seem afraid, he holds Harry’s hand while he walks, nonchalant. They go back to his house or whatever remains he claimed as his.

“It is not much but it has a solid roof and strong doors,” he says, waving at the house, paint peeling, walls bare and windows dirty, it served as a shelter to someone at some point.

“It is not much,” he repeats again, not excuses—just facts, a reminder of how much has been demolished, what remains of it.

The massacre stopped, it stopped with Harry still having all of his limbs and organs in place. He lost nothing, there were scratches, gashes on his body, open wounds but he would survive. Nothing that would leave him permanently, physically imparied. Maybe a jagged path of flesh, like over his ribs, on his face, back of his knee.

The medic told him to be grateful and pray that he will never have to do that again. 

“These will heal, broken bones are nothing, you hear me kid?” she had asked, tightening the bandages and dabbing over wounds with watered down spirits.

“That brain of yours? Don’t let it lose hope, it will never heal but never give in to it, understand?” 

He had nodded with a wince, swallowing down grunts of pain as she dabbed more iodine on his cuts.

The boy untangles his hand, they start shaking again. Even as they shake, they are sure—sure as ever as he runs his burnt fingertips over the chipping wallpaper, holes in the walls from nails used to hang up frames, a line of darkened paint because of a sofa pushed against the wall, dent from a bed being carried inside the wrong way. He tries to soak in the memories that have already turned into vapour and mixed themselves with the air.

Harry watches as the last of sunlight catches onto his cheek, it reveals tiny nicks and cuts probably from a razor, they’re almost invisible, nothing like the ones on Harry’s face. He stands in the doorway and the rays enter no more. His face is swathed in darkened honey light.

Harry has a scar on his brow, running from the edge of his lip to the end of his shoulder, there’s scarring on his thigh, skin marred, large pink lines across his ribs. All hidden underneath the fabric, taunting him, the pattern of it sewed into his fingertips. 

“Do you speak?” Harry asks, picking up broken pieces of plaster lying near the floor, kicking away the chunks, clearing it out.

He is worried in the slightest, the boy had spoken not one word since he brought him along. He might be born mute for all he knows.

A soft noise catches his attention. He nods, eyes cast towards the semi decent converse, body bare of possessions but the clothes on his back and an expensive looking watch on his wrist.

“You choose not to,” he confirms, not really a question, he signs a yes. He doesn’t pry for more information.

He offers a shadow of a smile— it feels alien and wrong somehow, his lips aren’t cracked and covered with days old dirt, no smoke on his mouth, nothing broken— a plain smile. Another thing he left behind in the war.

He’s seen people dying, he’s seen the old version of himself dying somewhere between the first and the third night spent huddled under thin sheets, body aching with drills, sweat and iron always lingering.

The smile though, it steals the air out of his lungs and mixes it with ashes. Something else fills him up, something shimmery and glimmering, catching suspended sunlight. He knows the feeling, it’s right on the tip of his tongue but he cannot name it, it is familiar as the ash lining his gums.

He claims the Diwan as his, Harry sighs, relieved to have a room, a bed that does not stink with his sweat, one that is not always cold with lingering fear.

The next day there is a knock at his door. His companion is curled up on the lumpy mattress thrown over the teak diwan that survived, blanket thin and almost tearing at the seams. He folds into himself, deeper, more foetal.

Harry opens the door to find a lens shoved into his face, capturing all the temporary creases from the first night of actual sleep and permanent lines from the time spent among mayhem. His body was too tired to keep him up with nightmares, limbs aching and filled with lead.

The man behind the camera is old. Hair streaked with hints of black, hands wrinkled and full of spider webs, tender blue green. “We’re free, it has come to an end. Happy independence!” he cheers, hair flying behind the black object.

Harry nods tightly and gives a short wave. “Happy independence,” he reciprocates, reality not set in yet, stomach churning.

The end will take time for his body to take in, it feels like it is in the shell of the soldier, a rebel, the phantom of blood and death everywhere, still fighting. It feels like the day before it all began with soil still fresh, flowers in full bloom, creeks clear with fish and scarlet canals.

Hope was still so alive in him.

He imagined the ending would bring back hope to him. Give him something to hold on to. Yet it only reminds him violence, bloodshed, crimson metal, deafening screams, of the masses and their pent up anger, pouring out in gushes. All of them surviving on hatred and spite—pushing through each day.

The end should feel more bright but it doesn’t. It feels like a sunset, leading way to more darkness and not light.

He shuts the door and pretends not to see the shaking shoulders beneath the ratty blanket.

He tries to figure out how to turn on the shower, he could use one really desperately.

The water is icy and a little yellow but it keeps his mind occupied, it gives him something else to focus on. 

He is losing control over his mind.  
  


* * *

_“Kindness sometimes, it exists in the most frightful places. It sometimes exists in saving, the others it is in slaughter.”_

He reminds Harry of a baby deer, a little doe he had found during his time on the battlefield. Few days old it was, very small and half starved beside its mother’s decaying carcass, lapping up tears from its cheeks, legs trembling.

He took it back with him, hid it in his tent and did his best to care for it. Kept feeding it bread and greens from his own ration, going out late in the nights to get any foliage he could find to bring back to the doe.

He kept it alive, it was a long time, a month of half eating and barely sleeping in exchange for the deer to grow, to give it a chance at life, something he inherently had taken away. Not solely but as a part of it.

One evening he came back covered in blood and sweat, acid fresh in the back of his throat, images of remains of bodies new. He didn’t have the stomach to eat.

He fed it everything he had, every last bit of his meal, the watered down porridge, the barely boiled vegetables on the side. He cuddled it close and fell asleep, feeling his heart slowly become warm.

He had woken up to a cold body, the icy feeling in the centre of his chest cracking his heart, shards of it piercing his diaphragm, his lungs collapsing.

The food was poisoned, they lost people but none seemed above the innocent creature lying in bed beside him, eyes closed, body frozen.

There was blood on his hands but it could never be washed off. It remains, dark as the doe’s eyes, as the midnight sky, as the mouth of his rifle. The soil had been dark as he dug a pit, a grave for the little one, so small, so blue, somehow he put an end to a life.

As much as he shouldn’t, lest another life end in the same way, he continues to stay with him. All he wishes for is some company.

It’s a sick trick, the way his kindness ends up killing the other, his penances and sins piling up, crushing weight over his windpipe, shards of glass digging into his back, every swallow filled with salt, stinging his throat.

Fate has cruel ways to fuck you up.

* * *

“ _We sometimes take people for habits and habits for people. We think we would never lose them but we do, we all do.”_

Sometime during the second week after the declaration of war free country, Harry braves to step out of the house, direly in need of groceries and other necessities. He had made what he could from whatever was left behind, pushing himself along on half meals and a little salty water.

He takes his demure companion along, he stays by his side with a watered down smile on his face, face fresh with something he can’t put his finger on.

The store is run down but has everything they need, the bread is a little stale, they’ll just have to use it up soon and stretch out other items. He receives various forms of acknowledgement— waves, nods of heads, some stopping by to make small talk. 

There are people he knows from the field, some before he went off to wash himself in blood and some after it was over, as he was dragging bodies back to the base, fingers covered in blisters and scratched up from the ground.

His clothes are too big and hang off his shoulder, bony collar bones revealing themselves, a constellation of freckles dotted all over smooth, warm skin. The clothes were Harry’s and some of them the old owners who sought refuge.

He looks small and vulnerable in them.

Whenever someone with a severed appendage, a limb broken and in a cast appears, he stiffens beside Harry. 

All of them politely pretend like it is nothing out of the ordinary. Like it is perfectly normal for Harry to have that boy, that man hovering around him, touching his arm, so silent.

They are too worn out to think too much.

His fingers curl and clutch Harry’s shirt when Xavier comes up to ask about his well being. Xavier opted out of having a glass eye, instead there will always be an eye patch, the empty socket still a hollow underneath it.

Everyone has their own ghosts. 

The eye patches seem like his, Harry doesn’t question him. 

They buy a lot of canned food, tuna, soup, beans— anything that will tide them over for next two weeks. Or at least until the outside resembles something like before everything.

He sees the money dwindling fast, the prices were surely lesser than what they were but they were all bumbling around with empty pockets, living among shambles. 

He doesn’t ask him to leave — not yet. Maybe he will ask him to go after a week, at least after they stop finding corpses left and right, rotting away with big maggot infested wounds, plucked out eyeballs and empty sockets, foxes tearing into flesh and bone, chunks ripped out by ravens circling overhead. He will let him go after that, he tells himself and spends his money.

In a way, he wants to preserve his innocence. Unless he has already witnessed gore and mayhem, the thing that irks him the most is, he looks young. Tender and still growing, a fuzzy green stalk he can break in two with a single hand.

He is envious of it too. To be young and untaint and have so much more to look forward to, not see all of his childhood crumble in front of his very eyes while standing and watching from afar, helpless.

He lets him follow him back, lets him hold a bag of their purchases and fist the side of his tee. 

July feels so long.

Three weeks later they are out of cash, the food is barely there, if he scrapes the bottom hard enough, he will maybe make it last another week.

Harry doesn’t vocalise it but he sees, he sees the way the food on his plate reduces to smears of it, the last of it all. He still makes no move to leave, he cleans away the dishes and washes the empty cans.

“Where are you taking them to?” Harry questioned, a bit stressed out, trying to scrounge up cash from his place, nothing really coming out of it.

He simply shrugs and continues stacking them. 

The next week when they’ve truly run out of everything, including toiletries, there is an envelope on his chair, a flimsy little thing, paper too glossy like it was made out of a magazine page.

He opens the flap crookedly. Comparatively fresh bills and coins fill the entire thing up.

Harry sniffs into his sleeve. “Where did you get the—?” he points at the bundle of cash.

He raises a brow and motions to his wrist. It is bare— the watch is gone.

“Did it have a backstory?”

He nods.

Harry keeps quiet and offers a hand. “Shopping?”

A smile is directed to him, it feels golden white.

Is hope golden too?  
  


* * *

_“In a while maybe he will learn to unsee. Unsee the lines across his torso, dividing his flesh and bones. Until then, he is ready to pretend. He is still praying, pretending, playing to not see beyond.”_

_Dandelions._

He missed them the most at war. 

Dandelions which he would blow at, wrinkling his nose and sneezing right after a heavy gusty blow. They kept some part of hope intact in him

“Louis,” he hears a meek murmur, tender as rose petals, letters and syllables threatening to float away like dandelions.

“Harry,” he says back, lips spread with a smile, mouth red, cheeks bitten on the inside.

Louis smiles in return, flawless, stubble auburn and soft. He goes back to humming to himself, needle in his hand, stitching up holes from unsalvageable fabrics, an array of colours, one more vibrant than the last.

His silence does nothing to bother him. He’s seen men more quiet bearing more scars of horrors behind their closed lips, between sucked teeth, each more gruesome than the last, a myriad of emotions, loss and grief and anger, all swallowed, churning in their bellies, so dark.

Wars do that.

Wars bare man to hell and brings him back with nothing but the fire bubbling in his bloodstream as a memory, showing him his sins and the burden he will have to wear on his being until he is ready to sleep. 

And that no matter what their sin, no regards to their weight, they will always be naught when compared to God’s own ones.

Things are moving again. People are up and about, clearing the broken bits of plaster and rusting iron, food now not so scarce, soil forgiving them, yielding slow but surely, appeasing hunger and bringing back life.

Harry does that too. He spends all the whole day sweating under his thin tee, clearing the huge chunks of broken walls, cement and bricks dull and brittle. 

Louis brings him food, sometimes it is warm and steaming, just off the stove and the others it is cooled, garnishes melting in, his snippets of laughter warmer than the sun.

His bare wrists get covered with splotches of colour. They had unearthed a can of fresh paint— a weird silver that flashed blue in the nights. Louis spends his day inside, painting over the cracks, fills the holes with cement he gets from their nearest neighbour in exchange for sewing, tries to make it feel as normal as he can.

There is something serene in the way the silvery blue makes Louis look more docile, more softer around the edges, a vision seen through a smudged lens, moonlight tinted dream.

They spend their evenings just lying on the diwan, arms pressed against each other, their breaths low and even, sleep heavy limbs tangling with the stretched blanket, melting into the sheets.

They always wake up tangled, hands on backs, faces tucked into necks, into dry curls, beard burns on cheekbones, warmth bleeding from one to another, cheeks dusted with pink and red, from shyness and not wounds.

He cries sometimes, sobs buried into Louis’ chest, his ribs so fragile underneath, hurting and aching with every subsiding tear. And if he ever wakes with wrists wet, he never questions it. 

The days move and they do too. Not like war, he repeats in his head.

_Not like war._  
  


* * *

_“We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.”_  
_—Richard Siken_

On a grey Wednesday, Louis speaks, the clouds are moody, threatening to rain.

It is nothing more than a hushed here you go and a half smile accompanying his toast and cuppa, calloused fingers burning his.

Harry feels the golden white feeling unfurl again, this time petals caressing his lungs, filling them with a nostalgic fragrance, right in the center of his chest.

“Thank you,” he sincerely says, not for the toast, they both know.

Harry kicks around the whole afternoon. He furiously clears the weeds, digging a pit to throw away their food wastes, planning to use it as manure to plant their own patch of vegetables once things are better.

He doesn’t know when or how but he has started to dust away the idea of letting Louis go. He wants him to stay with him.

As he is pulling out the weeds, he finds a dandelion, growing between the cracks of asphalt. He crushes it with his boot, sourness clawing at the back of his throat. Hope is not white and yellow like the flower growing out of the cracks, it is not. 

Not anymore.

Inside their house, he hears pots and pans being set out, metal on granite, a syrupy melody being hummed, his tense shoulders loosening immediately.

There is something comforting and pure in the way Louis keeps humming to himself, body swaying gently to the tune, eyes bright and face open.

He sullenly walks back out, searching for a dandelion, one he didn’t crush due to his bitterness. He finds one, white and fluffy.

He blows at it, wishing on every single one to let Louis stay. To brush away his crushed veneer and bloodied images flitting through his brain, loud loud loud and red red red.

He goes back in— to blues, yellows and white— a sunny morning sky, Louis’ voice throaty and a little scratchy around the curves. “Can you reach that for me?” he asks, demure and sulky, pointing at the highest shelf, a can of pineapples and sun dried tomatoes visible.

“We bought pineapples?”

“No, Xia gave me them in exchange for mending her dress.”

“How did you even get it there in the first place?” Harry teases, amusement clear.

Louis turns a pearl pink, huffy and lip slightly jutting out in annoyance. “Nevermind, I’m going to climb the counter and fall and you can tend to yourself and me,” he grouches.

Harry hides a pleased smile in his elbow and brings it down. It is the first time that Louis has spoken so much to him. 

A sliver of glittery ray shines in him— perhaps he’s gained his trust and given him an atmosphere where he can be himself and be safe. He preens at the thought.

Louis beams at him with pineapple juice dribbling down his jaw and it clicks into place.

The bright, smooth, silken feeling, honeyed and polished is hope.

Louis reminds him of how beautiful hope truly is.

* * *

_The way it’s night for many miles, and then suddenly it’s not, it’s breakfast_  
_and you’re standing in the shower_  
_for over an hour, holding the bar of soap up_  
_to the light_  
_—Richard Siken_

It takes six months for Louis to stop shaking under his blankets. He eventually does— he falls asleep holding Harry’s hand, neither of them shake as much.

They go out shopping a little easy, food now somewhat fresh, fields still suffering the aftermath of violence, but it does get better. It either gets better or they become better adapted to everything. A new ‘normal’ for everyone.

Louis is two aisles over, buying toiletries while he’s picking out peaches, slightly bruised and ripe.

He is still debating whether or not to buy them, Solomon approaches him with his hair grey by his temples, hairline barely there anymore, cheeks wrinkled and saggy.

“Styles? You made it out alive!” he exclaims, a tone fit to damage his ears.

His mouth sours, bottom half of face lifting uncomfortably. “I did,” he affirms, tearing his gaze away.

“Fresh as a daisy you were back in the field, didn’t think you’d make it, you know what I mean?”

His fingers dig into the peach, juices flowing down his hand, soaking into his skin, sticky, sweet and ripe. “Me neither. Miracles do happen, mate.”

Another smoke stained laugh, he feels the upper row of his teeth taste of soot, smoke on his tongue, thick, and bitter, and dark.

Louis is almost by his side, his presence sweet and light, washing away the ash with every step closer, wrists bony as they wave over his face, so bare, he impulsively presses a kiss to the inside of it.

They are alone and not. His face prickles with something hot, crimson and red as the blood in his veins. Solomon doesn’t say anything more, his face is pallid, more flaky. 

They walk out of the aisle.

The cashier is young, too young to be drafted, too old to be put down like they did with kids under ten. His cheeks are red to match his hair, baby fat still intact, so untaint of everything they’ve seen.

He’s chewing on a piece of gum, obnoxious and too loud for the deserted store. Flies buzz around outside, the gloom of monsoon hangs heavy, air already carrying the smell of rain.

He looks at Harry with watery greys. “You were in the war right? How was it?” He asks pointing at the scar on his face, mirroring the path of it on his own face.

Harry freezes, Louis’ fist bunches near the end of his flannel, heavy and familiar. Stabilising.

“Long and tiring and violent,” he says, smiling blankly, quickly adding their purchases into the bags Louis insisted they carry.

Louis’ hand slides underneath his shirt, to rest on his clammy, sweaty skin, his palm warm, grounding his mind.

When they are back at their renovated place, and by renovated it doesn’t seem like it is on the verge of collapsing any given second, Louis is stacking up the emptied cupboards, Harry speaks.

“The war — it was like moving to a new neighbourhood, a new city— after years of growing up in a tiny town, watching all these people move at all times, vibrant personas clashing and existing in one place. You don’t know where the nearest store that sells your favourite brand of cereal is. You don’t know why the neighbours feed the dogs or why they never bark at anyone. It was what it felt like at the beginning. Something that was beyond this little universe I had lived my entire life in. Revolving around the same people since the beginning of forever.”

The cupboards are painted a bright blue and pink, horribly clashing, glaringly cheerful. He picked out the colours, Louis painted them. It is theirs.

His hand strays under his shirt, fingers tracing the scars beneath the coarse fabric, memories of blurry pain and soot covered faces hovering over his flashing by. “After a while, it stopped being so new. As if I adapted to it, I would feel no bile at the sight of my body blown to bits — I got used to it. They became landmarks in a way. A boulder always bloody, dust always flying, ground cracked and rocky, a tree slowly dying.”

Louis closes the cupboard a little too loud and jumps. He sets down a bottle of orange juice they bought on a whim as a luxury. “Drink,” he urges, sitting across him, hair teased up high, smile lovely as ever, now empathetic.

The juice is pulpy, a bit warm and reminds him of springtime and lazy, sweat sticky, hot summer days, mid April.

“Bombs on Monday morning, rifles on Tuesday nights, bullets on Wednesday afternoons. Days were synonymous with violence and mayhem, a revolution painted red, a riot dipped in blood. Cruelty sharpened into an ornament,” he pauses a minute, the images slowly painting themselves behind his lids, remembering. “Those days— those days I would wish them upon no one.”

The only sounds are their heavy breathing and him drinking the juice. 

Louis offers him a piece of his story. “The watch was my brother’s way of giving me life. Told me I would find a use for it in exchange for a chance to live longer. Sometimes I wish he had taken it instead, he was too young to be six feet under like he is now.”

“You still have hope. Hang on to it,” he fiercely admonishes, circling his wrist, pulse steady under his thumb.

“And you?” he harshly asks, eyes flaming, mouth so red, him so delicately strong, unwilling.

His question floats in the air, gets thunderstruck and turns into a lilac streak. Hope is not golden, it is not burning red, it is not violet.

Hope is blinding and nothing and all it is— is a feeling that fills him to the brim with a joy for an unexpected tomorrow, an inkling that soon it will all get better.

“Hope is dangerous, it makes you dance to life’s fucked up tune, you keep dancing even when your soles are burning red and hands become golden and are bleeding from the hot ground.”

His ribs ache, they are not tough yet. His heart is still trying to break through, they are crushing under the weight yet they are light, slender as a bird’s bones.

Evolution is slow, revolutions are loud. He’s seen both of them. Gunshots are music to his ears— a man finding home in a battleground.

His eyes fall on Louis, his scruffy jaw, his arched cheekbones, lithe muscles and his brooding eyes. He is fragile and strong and ethereal. 

He wants to scream. _Boys like you deserve summer, they aren’t fit for showers of blood._

Harry sees him as hope personified. “I have it. I pray you never leave.”

Louis grins and thunder outside perfectly captures the eruption of comfort flowing in him.

There will be days when he will struggle to find hope and believe that it truly will get better but for now, he has someone to fall back on. Someone to hold his hand and wash away his pain. 

Louis whispers three worn words to him in their place and Harry sees the end of his misery in the long run.

It might take him a year or ten but he can finally hope, maybe not everyday, not even for an hour sometimes but he has some faith put in himself. He knows as well as Louis that people don’t change miraculously, the horrors they’ve seen don’t erase themselves because they have a hand to hold. The trauma doesn’t heal itself on its own with a kiss and cradling of faces.

“Are you scared?”

“Yes.”

“Me too, H.”

Louis is picking at the label of Harry’s half drunk juice bottle and he thinks he can try. They both can. He smiles, his cheeks bunch up, he feels better.

The war has come to an end, he feels like he is home again. The dawn he was waiting for has broken out. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! you can reblog it [here](https://harryanthus.tumblr.com/post/630878196949254144/the-end)


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